The Eye of Heaven

  “We’re fortunate there was anything left. Could you make out the writing and illustrations?”

  “I did. But I’d say right now that’s not our biggest problem,” she said as flashlight beams glimmered from the castle base. “Our pursuers just figured it out. I sure hope Selma was good to her word or our troubles have just begun.”

  “Look. There it is,” Sam said, pointing at a line tethered to a rock on the shore. He ran to it and pulled as hard as he could, and an ancient black inflatable boat came bouncing through the mild surf.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Remi said.

  “Hey, it’s Cuba. What do you want? This is probably pretty modern for here,” he said as the dinghy washed up onto the beach. He snapped open his Swiss Army knife, severed the line from the rock, and coiled it up and tossed it into the tired little craft.

  “Get in and I’ll push it out until we’re clear of the breakers,” Sam said.

  Remi checked her backpack again to make sure that it was sealed tight, the camera safe in the waterproof bag, before helping push the boat a few feet into the water and climbing in.

  Sam waited until another wave surged in and heaved the tender away from the sand, turning his back to the incoming surf as it broke over him. Lights from shore swept the beach as soldiers followed their path along the rocks. The bottom fell away from Sam’s feet and he climbed aboard and, after a concerned look at the pre-1960s outboard, jerked the cord to start the engine.

  Nothing.

  He tried again and was rewarded with a feeble cough and puff of exhaust.

  “Remi. Grab the oars and row us farther out. This might take a while.”

  As she complied, he didn’t need to turn to face her to read her expression. Instead, he focused on the outboard, which finally sputtered to noisy life on the eighth try.

  “There. Told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  The moonlight glinted off the gold scarab hanging from Remi’s neck as she peered into the gloom, where she could barely make out the sound of men yelling to one another. “I’d put it into gear because we’re still in range . . . and will be until we can’t see the shore.”

  As if to underscore her point, slugs splashed into the water behind them, followed by the sharp report of automatic rifle fire.

  “Let’s hope nobody’s got a night vision scope. Keep your head down,” he said, and then goosed the throttle. He was rewarded by a groan as the motor almost died; then it revved and the boat surged forward over the small waves. More gunfire slapped into the sea around them, frustrated volleys rather than well aimed, and soon the noise of the gunfire receded as the little craft bounced its way north.

  “How far?” Remi asked.

  Sam pulled a small waterproof GPS from his backpack, powered it on, and squinted at the screen.

  “Mile and a half due north. Now we’ll be racing the Cubans’ ability to get a helicopter into the air. If they’re as mañana about that as about other things, we should make it. It’s almost one a.m. on a weekday, and we shouldn’t show up on radar. I like our odds.”

  “What about the rendezvous boat?”

  “Once we’re aboard, we’ll be in international waters soon enough. It’ll do an honest fifty knots on fairly flat seas like these, and in a pinch, can top out at over a hundred. Besides, I don’t think the Cubans are going to cause an international incident over thrill seekers breaking into some old storage room. We didn’t even take anything, which a quick inventory will show. Let’s hope they lose interest when they figure that out.”

  “Lots of hoping going on. I don’t need to remind you that’s not a great strategy,” Remi chided.

  “The fastest craft the Cubans have tops out at thirty-six knots, assuming everything’s operating perfectly, so we’ve got an advantage if there’s a chase. They’d never even get close.”

  “But their rockets might. It would be nice if we knew where the nearest Cuban ship was.”

  “Our boat should have radar.”

  “‘Should’? Back to hope, are we?”

  “So far, so good.”

  The inflatable bounced along at a good clip, the swells two-footers, the breeze barely stirring their crests. Sam kept an eye peeled on Havana Harbor for any fast-moving lights, but none appeared, and in a few more minutes the dark hull of an oceangoing speedboat appeared on the horizon.

  “That’s it,” Sam announced as he pointed the bow in the direction of the waiting vessel. Soon they were on board the fifty-foot Cigarette Marauder, its three Mercury 1075 engines rumbling as they settled in. The captain, a tall silver-haired man with twinkling blue eyes, patted the dashboard as the three of them watched the dinghy sink out of sight, its life now over. He zipped his light windbreaker over a blue Hawaiian shirt and ran a large hand through his hair as he peered at the Cuban mainland in the distance.

  “How long will it take us to get to Cay Sal?” Sam asked.

  The captain glanced at his watch’s orange face and smiled. “If nature favors us, couple of hours max. My tanks are topped off, and I’ve got another boat waiting there to refuel me for the trip home. Of course, if we have to evade one of the Navy boats, we could be there in a little over an hour at full throttle. Either way, we’ll be out of Cuban territorial water within ten minutes, maybe less. Run this baby up to eighty knots and it’ll make short work of that.”

  “Eighty knots? That’s flying.”

  “You aren’t kidding. Might want to strap in because at that speed we might lift off.”

  “Good idea,” Remi said. “Let’s get going. No point in waiting for the bad guys to get their act together.”

  “Aye, aye, little lady. Hang on tight.”

  The captain engaged the transmissions and pushed the throttles forward. The big engines roared, the boat leapt into motion, and thirty seconds later they were tearing over the waves at almost eighty knots. They rocketed across the sea, the low windshield barely breaking the rush of air as they hurtled northwest.

  The captain placed a finger on the radar screen and tapped a blip on the outer reaches. “That’s probably a Navy ship!” he shouted over the scream of the engines. “Looks to be twenty-two miles west. Let’s see if he picks up his pace or not. He may not even have us on radar. It’s pretty hard to track this baby, especially at night on moderate seas.”

  They watched the pulsing glow of the dot he’d pointed out as they pulled north of it like it was standing still. The captain squinted and shook his head.

  “It’s moving fairly fast. Looks like around thirty-five knots, which is really hauling for a ship that size. Of course, we’re doing more than double that, so by the time he reaches the limits of his territorial waters we’ll be halfway to Cay Sal.”

  The swell size picked up when they were fifteen miles from Cuba, the island’s lights a glimmer on the horizon. The captain throttled back to fifty-five knots, which, while racing, felt almost stationary after the open-water run at close to double that. The bench seat slammed their lower spines, coming off each wave, and by the time the captain eased back to forty-five knots Sam and Remi felt like someone had been beating their kidneys with a board. Their host appeared unfazed; if anything, he seemed to be enjoying the nocturnal run, the wind whipping around him as he leaned forward into each wave.

  They’d now been aboard for two hours and were approaching the leeward side of Cay Sal. The captain made a hushed call on his radio before piloting nearer the shoals. A flashlight winked in the darkness, and he deftly pulled the big boat alongside a waiting Cessna T206H Stationair and eased to a halt in the calm water next to it.

  “Ahoy, Cap’n! Watch your step, you two. Come on, take my hand,” the pilot called out over the drone of the plane’s idling engine as he tossed a line to Sam so he could pull the boat closer. Remi went first, leaping across the chasm with ease. Sam turned to the boat captain.

  “Much obliged, sir,” Sam said.

  “Safe travels to you and your lovely lady. May you make it wherever you’re headed wit
h smooth air and an easy landing.”

  Sam nodded and turned his attention to the plane. “Here I come,” he warned.

  Remi watched through one of the windows as he jumped onto the pontoon. Sam caught hold of the door and climbed into the aircraft. The boat’s engines revved and it pulled away, ready for its rendezvous before making its way back to whatever port the boat called home. Sam peered at the transom as it faded from view.

  “Mistress of the C. Odd name for a boat, don’t you think?” Remi commented.

  “After that ride, I’d say he can call it whatever he wants as long as it’s available again if we’re ever in a similar scrape.”

  The pilot, a spry man whose dark brown goatee was sprinkled with silver, hoisted himself in and pulled the door closed. “Welcome aboard,” he said, offering a grin. “Buckle up for takeoff.”

  They were pushed back in their seats as the plane accelerated, bouncing across the small waves until it lifted into the sky for the four-hour trip to Cancún, where their G650 awaited.

  Once back in Mexico City, Sam and Remi set out to study the images they’d taken at such risk and found themselves viewing a collage of artifacts and four photographs of the manuscript. They’d already discarded the letters from the sailors, which were of historical significance but not much else, and focused instead on the jumble of apparently random letters in the mystery document.

  The first thing they did was to send it all to Selma and the team for analysis, although it was with mixed feelings. Selma might have full faith in her niece’s abilities, but Remi wasn’t so sure. It had been a heated topic of discussion and one that had led them to disturbing conclusions.

  “She and the team were the only people who knew we were in Cuba, Sam. That’s fact. And we know Selma, Pete, and Wendy are trustworthy.”

  “No, so did Lagarde. We have no idea who else he might have told.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, but I have misgivings about Kendra. I have since the very beginning . . .”

  “Which might be coloring your perception,” Sam observed. “We can’t just assume she’s feeding someone information about us.”

  “I’m not assuming anything. I’m just saying there’s no other way whoever was tracking us could have known where we were staying or about our interest in Morro Castle.”

  “Except Lagarde. And everyone he talked to. Come on, Remi, which is more likely? That Kendra’s working for the dark side or that someone in Cuba has a big mouth?”

  They had to agree to disagree, but it was with hesitation that Remi sent off the shots of the manuscript, along with the images of the icons, with instructions to subject the manuscript to a comparison of all known sixteenth-century codes.

  The photos of the artifacts were of little help. They appeared to be pictographs shipped to Cuba, presumably for either safekeeping or forwarding to Spain—which in this case obviously had never happened. The images depicted a procession of warriors and priests, various examples of the deity Quetzalcoatl—a fairly common icon in both Toltec and Aztec symbolism—and finally several tableaus of a pyramid belching smoke into the sky.

  There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to why the artifacts had been taken from the mainland nor any indication of what was sensitive or valuable enough about them to warrant the effort. There were similar pictographs covering virtually every Mesoamerican city in Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala.

  The first day back, there were no answers, and they decided to pack it in early, still exhausted after their escape from Havana.

  “I suppose it’s a pretty safe bet that we’ll never get invited to look for sunken galleons around Havana Harbor,” Sam said as they walked to their waiting taxi outside the Institute.

  “It wasn’t like we were on anyone’s short list for that.”

  “How about we order room service and get a good night’s sleep? Does that sound reasoned and logical?” Sam asked.

  “You make a compelling argument. But first I have a date with a long, hot bath.”

  “Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets. That’s my new motto.”

  Remi gave him a skeptical look as he held the taxi door open for her. “What did you make of the pictures?”

  “Nice composition, decent lighting . . .”

  She nudged him as he got in next to her. “You know what I mean.”

  “Ah, if you’re referring to my hopes that they would lead us to our elusive friend’s final resting place, I’m afraid they aren’t really the equivalent of an X on a map, are they?”

  “That’s what I thought. They don’t really make a lot of sense to me. Seems like just more of the same,” Remi griped.

  “Maybe we should get Maribela and Antonio involved tomorrow. They’re really the experts. At least they can narrow down whether they’re Toltec or Aztec. That would tell us if they’re even relevant.”

  “I’m reluctant, but it doesn’t seem like we’re seeing whatever the pattern is.”

  “No. But that could also be because we just came off twenty-four hours of breaking and entering, being chased and shot at, traversing the ocean in a speedboat, flying across the Gulf in a prop plane, and jetting to Mexico City.”

  “Don’t forget sliding down an old toilet chute,” she reminded. “I won’t anytime soon . . .”

  “If you think of it as a water ride, it’s more palatable.”

  Remi crinkled her nose. “Yuck! Just yuck.”

  They rode back in comfortable silence and enjoyed dinner in the room. Sam surprised her with her favorite, pomegranate margaritas, and rewarded himself with Don Julio Blanco on the rocks with salt and lime. When they were done, Sam called Selma to see what luck she’d had with the manuscript. Kendra answered the call and the news wasn’t positive.

  “No hits so far. We tried an automated run and that didn’t yield anything, so now we’re doing it manually. But it doesn’t look good. According to Pete, the automated sequence would have picked it up if it was a known cipher. So we could be looking at something that hasn’t been seen in that period, which is a whole different kettle of fish.”

  “It also could be tied to a different document, in which case we’ll never figure it out,” he said.

  “Selma’s going to run it through her sources and see if anything comes up. But most of the ciphers are well understood now, and those that aren’t . . . well, they’re keeping their secrets.”

  “Stay on it, Kendra. I’ll touch base again tomorrow. Has anything else come in?”

  “A progress report from Canada. A Dr. Jennings indicated that the preparations are coming along nicely. He said you would understand what he meant and that he’s returning to Montreal as the cataloging continues so he can start raising funds for the restoration. He asked me to thank you for putting Warren Lasch from the CSS Hunley effort in touch with him—apparently, he’s been a godsend.”

  “Oh, good. I thought he might be able to help.”

  “He’s flying to Canada for a few weeks to assist with the infrastructure preparations and the transport of the ship.” Kendra hesitated. “Oh, and I sent the progress report to your e-mail account, too.”

  “Good. Thanks for all the hard work. We appreciate it.” Sam paused. “How’s Selma?”

  “Fighting the good fight—you know her, she’s a trouper. She’s getting stronger and more mobile every day, but still needs painkillers at night sometimes if she overdoes it.”

  “Is she there?”

  Kendra hesitated. “She’s resting right now. Do you want me to go wake her?”

  “No. Of course not. Let her sleep. I just wanted to say hello. It can wait.”

  “Okay. Is there anything else?”

  “No, Kendra. I’ll call again at nine tomorrow morning your time.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Remi watched as he ended the call and saw his frown.

  “Nothing?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Ever the optimist.”

  “All part of my childish naïveté.??
?

  “How’s Selma?”

  “According to Kendra, holding her own.” Sam relayed the gist of the conversation.

  Remi sat in silence for a long moment and then kissed Sam’s cheek. “You’re a good man, Sam Fargo.”

  “Fooled you again. My evil scheme is working,” he said, and kissed her back.

  “More like fatigue and the margaritas.”

  “Gotta love those margaritas . . .”

  The throbbing of the massive diesel engines vibrated the yacht’s salon floor. Janus Benedict paced its length, a snifter of cognac clenched in his hand as he listened in quiet fury on his cell phone. Off in the distance, the white-and-blue buildings of Mykonos dotted the island’s hills as the big ship approached for a week of revelry and meetings with Middle Eastern clients who were willing to pay top dollar for difficult-to-acquire arms.

  “Two amateurs gave your professional Cuban intelligence service team the slip? How is that possible? Explain it to me,” he seethed.

  “They were tracking them round the clock, but the Fargos must have somehow stumbled across the surveillance because they literally vanished into thin air when they should have been at the hotel,” Percy said.

  “Which is an excuse. You know how I feel about excuses instead of performance.”

  “Indeed. I’ve already made my displeasure known in the strongest possible terms to the locals. They won’t be getting paid.”

  “I’d prefer they were fed to the sharks.”

  “Quite. But I’m afraid they rather frown on that sort of thing, even in Cuba.”

  “Paying through the nose for poor results is becoming somewhat tedious, Percy.”

  “No question.” Percy took a quiet breath. “I did get a rather interesting report from a different Cuban source, though. That same night, someone broke into Morro Castle. The footage from the security cameras captured your friends in the act. The Cubans are livid at being made fools of—the castle is a fortified area, with a military and police presence, and yet your amateurs made it in and out without any effort, from what I can gather.”